


Burning Glances, Turning Heads

by DoreyG



Category: Frey & McGray Series - Oscar de Muriel
Genre: Flirting, M/M, Manhandling, Public Groping, Size Kink, Undercover As Gay, Undercover as Strangers, alleyway sex, frenemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: He would've never usually chosen to be here, would've usually chosen to turn tail and run a mile to the nearest proper pub, but his job had made it a necessity. A poor murdered boy dragged out of the gutter, beaten and wretched. The kind of lad who would've usually been forgotten, if their new commissioner Trevelyan hadn't taken one look at him and named him as his long lost nephew. The subsequent investigation had led them here, to a private gentleman's club whose membership apparently consisted of every hoity toity person in Edinburgh.
Relationships: Ian Frey/Adolphus "Nine-Nails" McGray
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: Mild Heart Attack 2020: Short Treats Collection





	Burning Glances, Turning Heads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



The room where he sat was remarkably posh, just like the entire rest of the club. It was all white panelling and comfy chairs that a man could lose himself in, posh mirrors stretching to the ceiling and nervy looking servants ready to meet your every whim, the cream of society drifting around like they didn't have a care in the world and an air of snooty privilege penetrating every inch. It was all undeniably very nice, but he felt more uncomfortable than he had in years.

He would've never usually chosen to be here, would've usually chosen to turn tail and run a mile to the nearest proper pub, but his job had made it a necessity. A poor murdered boy dragged out of the gutter, beaten and wretched. The kind of lad who would've usually been forgotten, if their new commissioner Trevelyan hadn't taken one look at him and named him as his long lost nephew. The subsequent investigation had led them here, to a private gentleman's club whose membership apparently consisted of every hoity toity person in Edinburgh.

Their current theory was that the boy had been a prostitute, one who had become inconvenient to his latest protector and had been disposed of as a result. Their current lead suspect was one Peter Kirkham, a thoroughly nasty piece of work who was just wealthy enough to have small shit slide off him like water from a duck's back but not quite wealthy enough to dodge a murder charge. Their plan, considering the stakes, was as watertight as they could make it: get the guy's sympathy, one of them posing as a buyer and one of them posing as a prostitute, and see what his great big mouth revealed.

Frey, initially, had assumed that he was going to be the upper class buyer. "Well of course you're going to be the prostitute!" He had said, looking mildly amused at even the thought of any other possibilities. "It would make no sense for me to act the part. I mean, just look at me. Not a single person would ever think that I could sell myself for money."

And then Trevelyan, in a move which might just have won his eternal allegiance, had awkwardly cleared his throat.

As it turned out, as he could've pointed out if Frey had thought to ask him for even a second, he was well known in Edinburgh. Not personally, he hadn't moved in the circles they were targeting ever since his parents had died, but most definitely by reputation. He'd get made in two seconds if he ever tried to pretend to be something he wasn't, and any chance of justice would vanish like smoke on the wind 

Frey, on the other hand, was significantly less conspicuous. He had lived in Edinburgh for going on a year now, and had some notoriety as the English bastard constantly tagging along in his wake, but if he took at least one plum out of his mouth he was basically unrecognisable to all but the most invested observer.

Frey had looked absolutely horrified when the news had been broken to him, and it had genuinely been one of the most satisfying moments of his entire life. What had followed had been a lot of bargaining and pleading and reluctance, but to his surprise Frey had eventually rolled his eyes and agreed to it. On the condition that it meant absolutely nothing, would all be hushed up afterwards and would be mentioned even in official reports only in the very vaguest terms.

Which led them to here. Him sitting in a posh as fuck bar, waiting on Frey to show.

He'd been waiting for so long, over an hour by his reckoning, that he didn't really expect the man to make an appearance. He couldn't blame him, really. They'd been getting on a bit better since the whole business with the theatre, but it was a big ask to leap from just about not hating each other to pretending to fuck for money. He was probably going to spend the whole night sitting by himself, and then stamp home at dawn with nothing to show for it but nothing really lost. It'd be annoying for a while, but then they could get started on another plan and it'd all be fine. More than fine, actually, great.

But just as he'd resigned himself to that, just as he'd made himself happy with that to be perfectly honest, there was a rustle of noise at the door and a corresponding rustle of interest throughout the room. And he turned his head, and saw the exact moment when Frey entered the room.

He still looked like himself, largely, but a subtly different version of himself. He'd forgone his waistcoat, and had daringly opened the top two buttons of his shirt. His hair was ruffled, and his lips were red as if he deliberately worried at them just before he walked in. He looked younger somehow, wilder and freer and a great deal less buttoned up.

It suited him, he mused, and immediately had to down a gulp of his whisky to get rid of the thought before it poisoned him.

Their eyes met across the room for a long moment, and he felt that same old connection - the one usually easy to dismiss as just dislike - crackle into being again between them. And then Frey looked down his body, noticed the fact that he was wearing a kilt - that his legs were proudly on display for once - and that deliberately arch expression transformed into something dazed.

He was about to get annoyed again, was about to glare at Frey for putting their cover in jeopardy for even a moment, but luckily the dazed expression lasted for only a moment. One of those apologetic waiters came to murmur in Frey's ear, and before long he was being swept away without a single slip more.

That was a good thing, part of the plan. He shoved down the absurd urge to get jealous, to go find Frey and demand everybody stop looking at him because Frey was _his_ bastard to obsess over, and sat back in his chair again. 

Luckily, for maybe Frey's well aimed jabs about his impatience weren't entirely misplaced, the wait wasn't a long one. It took about five agonising minutes, and then a shadow fell over him and Frey was standing there with his own whisky clutched in hand. "Can I sit here?"

His voice was different somehow. Still posh as fuck, but he'd followed his advice to reduce the plumminess and sounded significantly less prissy than usual as a result. He looked Frey over for a long and deliberate moment, feeling gleeful when the man flushed, and then gave a nod. "Aye, why not?"

Frey sat down a great deal more fluidly than usual, on the chaise longue across from him instead of right by his side, and he wasn't sure if that was part of the act or if that was just the way Frey moved when he wasn't worried about what was on his chair. He couldn't help but watch his every single movement, the way his somehow different clothes clung to him, and was slightly worried by his compulsion to do so.

They stared at each other awkwardly for a long moment once Frey was settled, neither quite sure where to go from there. Frey, he suspected, had never even approached a man before. He was a bit more practiced in that regard, but had certainly never picked up a prostitute in a posh club. This was brand new territory for both of them.

"So." Well, in the absence of any concrete plan he might as well resort to annoying cliché. Just to get Frey's back up a little. "I've never seen you around here before."

Frey arched a slightly disbelieving eyebrow at that opening salvo, but seemed more relieved than anything. Huh, perhaps he wasn't as dumb as bricks after all. "No. I'm just recently arrived in town."

"Let me guess." He pressed a thoughtful finger to his lips, didn't miss how Frey's eyes dropped to it before he viciously yanked them away. "From England?"

"I can see that you're a very smart man," Frey practically purred, and only somebody who knew him far too well would've seen the flash of irritation in his eyes. The silent prompt to get on with it, and stop wasting time on pointless questions. "Yes, I'm from England. Gloucestershire, to be exact."

Where his uncle, the one family member besides his little brother he actually seemed to give a shit about, lived. Smart, to pick a story he could easily remember. He shoved the reluctant admiration away and leaned in close and intimate. "And what's a pretty thing like you doing all the way up here?"

He realised what he'd said in his attempt to distract himself the moment after he'd said it, and had to fight back the violent blush that threatened to rise on his own cheeks. They were meant to flirt, yeah, but subtly. Doing just enough to make their fake relationship obvious, but not crossing over any lines in the process. Unfortunately a lot of shit had apparently got tangled in his head, and he was well aware that he'd just crossed several lines with prejudice.

"I-" Frey was obviously well aware of this too, and looked decidedly uncertain for a long few minutes. But then their eyes met again, and he was surprised to see determined resolve spread over the other man's face. "Several things went wrong in my personal life, things too boring to get into here, and I decided that I needed to explore new frontiers to get away from them."

He was reluctantly impressed yet again, but downright refused to let himself get distracted this time. "New frontiers?"

"Brand new ones," Frey said, and then hesitated for a long moment. He thought, briefly, that maybe it really had been all too much and Frey was about to flee from the room without a backwards glance. But no, the man just girded himself for a long second and then reached out and touched his bare knee.

A shock went right through him, as if he’d just touched his finger right to one of those new fangled electric lamps. His head jerked up, and he stared at Frey in unbridled shock… Only to find the man arching his eyebrow again, giving him a challenging glance as if this was all just another power struggle playing out between them in gruesome detail. They stared at each other for a long moment, and in the end he was unsurprised when the harshness of shock transformed into a far more mellow kind of heat.

“Perhaps it might be best to introduce ourselves,” he said deliberately, and had to grope for a moment afterwards to remember what exactly the plan had been. “I’m Adolphus McGray.”

Frey considered this for a moment, deliberately, and then regrettably drew back and removed his hand from his knee. He still felt it there even afterwards, though, a warm press of heat that seemed to have transformed something within him. “Charmed, I’m sure. You can call me Mr. Flambeau.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said dutifully, trying to sound like he meant it. He thought Flambeau was a bloody silly name to go around with, all things considered, but Frey had made the point that it was best to have a name that was obviously false - to aid his cover as a runaway throwing himself eagerly into the world of prostitution - and close enough to his own to cause no sudden slips. “Forgive me if I’m being pushy-”

Frey looked amused at that, and it didn’t even seem feigned. The man had always had a bloody bizarre sense of humour. “Oh, no. I’m sure you’ve never been pushy in your _life_.”

“-But do you think you might need some help with those new horizons?” He forged on, though not without taking a moment to give Frey a well earned glare in return. “I mean, you seem like a nice enough bloke. And I do like to help nice, pretty young things out when I’m at all able.”

He expected Frey to start spluttering and glaring again at that, but instead he only gave him a thoroughly amused glance - a taunt, a silent prompt to do better - and took another sip of his drink as he sunk back on his decadent chaise longue. “I will be honest, _Mr_. McGray, based on current evidence I’m not sure you can keep up with me.”

“Are you serious?” He demanded, not even having to act offended, and narrowly resisted the urge to gnash his teeth as Frey gave him another one of those incredibly irritating smirks. “I’m pretty good at keeping up with things, even obviously bad ideas. In fact, I’m pretty sure that one of my closest acquaintances would tell you that I’m the most likely person to go along with bad ideas that you’ll ever meet.”

Frey’s eyes narrowed for a second as he grasped his exact meaning, and he carefully moved his ankle a little to the left to avoid a vicious kick for the slip. But no, in the end he seemed content to accept it as yet another dare and started to look amused again. “He sounds like a very sensible man.”

“Eh.” He shrugged, unwilling to overtly compliment Frey even in this slightly strange arena. “He has his charms.”

“I’m sure he does,” Frey said lightly, and cast him a totally unexpected look from under his eyelashes. It should’ve looked ridiculous, on Frey’s pretty face. It most certainly didn’t, instead it only served to highlight the curve of his cheekbones and the lingering redness of his lips. “Is he, ah, as pretty as me though?”

He stared at Frey for a long moment, struck speechless. It should’ve been easy, beyond easy, to just say something flippant that could be easily retracted at a later date. But somehow, now that he was actually at this point, he found that he couldn’t. For he’d just realized, with a profound sense of shock, that he did find Frey pretty. From the darkness of his hair to the redness of his lips to the mocking scorn lingering in his eyes.

“Mr. McGray?” Frey was arching his eyebrow in challenge yet again, obviously proud to have knocked him off balance. He wondered if he’d still be so proud, if he knew exactly the thoughts racing through his mind at the speed of wild horses. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah, I’m listening,” he said absently, torn. And then looked Frey in the eye again, saw the naked challenge still present there, and decided in for a penny in for a pound. He was no delicate flower to cringe away from what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to let his prissy English lass turn him into one. “He’s fairly pretty, I’m not gonna lie. But I don’t think anybody is quite as pretty as you.”

That caused Frey’s snide, superior mask to crack. The man blinked at him, seeming shocked and uncertain and so much closer to himself than he had been since he’d walked into the room. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither of them saying a word, and he knew that both of them felt the charge between them.

“Look, I shook you,” he was the one to break the silence eventually, keeping his voice deliberately light and playful. This was a game that two people could play, after all, and he was starting to thoroughly enjoy it. “Bet not many men have done that before. Have I proved that I can keep up with you yet?”

“Mm, perhaps,” Frey said, sounding dazed. And then he took another long drag from his whisky, almost draining the glass, and sat up straight in his chair in a businesslike manner that shouldn’t have been even hotter than his languidness before but that definitely was. “But maybe that’s not even the main problem. Maybe the main problem is that you can’t afford me.”

It was a clumsy switch over to the topic that they needed to be on, but he couldn’t find it in himself to mind all that much. He had always enjoyed discombobulating Frey, and he was having even more fun with it than usual in this situation. “So it’s like that, is it?”

Frey gave him another look from underneath lowered eyelashes, as if aware of the effect that it had on him. “Are you really surprised?”

“Nah,” he said amiably, and gave his slowest and most self-satisfied grin. He felt a certain sense of glee, when he realized that Frey’s eyes were reluctantly clinging to it. “I thought you had the look of somebody eager to sell themselves from the first moment I saw you.”

That, to his extreme pride, was the provocation that finally caused Frey to break. His eyes went wide for a long moment, and then he choked on the last of his whisky and plunged headlong into a spluttering fit. It was utterly unrestrained, and utterly undignified, and utterly at odds with the urbane image he was meant to be presenting to anybody who cared to watch. It was also utterly, utterly beautiful.

As Frey was spluttering he rose to his feet, crossed the small space between them and slid onto the chaise longue by his side. They had been close many times before, had saved each other’s lives a time or two, but somehow it had never felt quite as intimate or deliberate as this.

“Just to be clear,” he said into Frey’s ear, close enough that his lips almost brushed the delicate shell of it. “Is this an approach without strings, just two men of a certain persuasion finding pleasure in each other, or a contract negotiation?”

Frey got his breath back in fits and starts, trembling as he desperately clawed back his equilibrium. To his credit, though, he didn’t flinch away from him; he only turned his head, and looked him right in the eye even with his face bright red and shining slightly with sweat. “What do you think?”

“Mm,” he said, and narrowly resisted the urge to flicker his tongue out and see how Frey’s - his refined English lassie’s - skin would taste. “I think you know your own worth.”

Frey’s lips twisted briefly. Didn’t quite settle into a smile, but looked for a wonderfully distracting moment like they just might. “Perhaps you’re a more discerning man than I took you for. I think you might just be right.”

He opened his mouth again, to bat back another retort in this delicious game that they were playing, but Frey had a few more tricks up his sleeve than that. He reached out quickly and deliberately, laid a hand on his bare knee again and then slowly trailed his fingers up until they went under the hem of his kilt and higher. He didn’t go quite far enough to discover if the legends about Scotsmen were true, which in his case they most definitely were, but he went just far enough to be deeply distracting.

There was naked glee on Frey’s face, as he absorbed his reaction. It should’ve been annoying, but instead it was one of the most tempting sights that he’d ever seen. “And I also know how to play my part, just as well as anybody else.”

He wanted, for a brief and dizzying moment, to question just how far that would go. Would Frey flutter his eyelashes at him again? Or move forwards until they could brush their lips together? Or even go down on his knees, and take him into his mouth for anybody and everybody to see? But all of those questions would’ve been so far past the line that it would’ve destroyed anything between them, and so in the end he settled for a vaguely breathless: “Is that right?”

Frey arched an eyebrow again, but this time he looked a lot less urbane and a lot more like his usual prissy self. “Do you doubt me?”

“I did in the past,” he said quite honestly, holding Frey’s gaze. All else was forgotten, the entire club around them that they were supposed to be keeping a close eye on, in favour of the energy bubbling and prickling between them. “But now I think you’re a lot more flexible than I ever dreamed you’d be. In far more positions than I ever thought you capable of.”

“Mm.” Frey’s cheeks heated again at the innuendo, but this time he didn’t start spluttering or look away. “But can I say the same for you?”

He leant in extremely close, until he could see the red flush on those pale cheeks in intimate detail. Was surprised, and ever so tempted, when Frey didn’t even try to look away but instead met his gaze challengingly. This, nose to nose, was closer to another human being than he’d been in years and he wasn’t surprised to find himself revelling in it.

“Doubting me again?” He asked softly, and knew by Frey’s shudder that the puff of his breath was tracing across the man’s surprisingly full lips.

“What can I say?” Frey murmured, and his eyes flickered away for a long moment before returning to his even more intense than before. “You show flashes of intelligence, but then immediately hide them behind so much pointless bluster. How can I know that you’re truly capable of meeting my price, or keeping up with my demands?”

Yet again, they weren’t talking about their characters. He couldn’t find too much fault with it, considering that he was the one who had started this particular part of the game, but he could keep meeting Frey’s eyes and only barely resisting the urge to edge ever closer. “You really think that lowly of me?”

“No. If anything, I think rather more highly of you than I should.” Frey swallowed for a moment, as if he hadn’t meant to reveal quite that much and was just as carried away by the strange atmosphere of the night as he was, and then obviously girded his loins again and gripped his bare thigh even more tightly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m taking all the steps here, while you’re still all bark and no bite.”

He stared slightly incredulously at that, trying to remind Frey that they were in their current position entirely due to him with his eyes alone, but Frey only held his gaze steadily. There was still a faint flush on his cheeks, evidence of how out of his depth he was, but there was also that old glorious challenge there. A call to arms: push me further, drive me higher, challenge me in the way that only you have ever been able to manage. 

Well, if he was going to be tempted in such a way… He reached out very deliberately, slid his hand into Frey’s lap and stroked the length of him through his trousers.

Frey had not been expecting that, even if he had been quite deliberately driving their game to higher and higher heights. He gasped, an entirely unrestrained sound, and turned an even brighter shade of red than before. His hips jolted up against his hand for a moment, just long enough that he could feel the man’s cock already starting to swell from the briefest touch of his palm, and then he stilled himself with a deliberate shudder.

“Seems like I can keep up with you after all,” he said very deliberately, knowing that this was probably a line too far and not exactly caring with Frey’s hand still gripping hard at his thigh, and slowly traced a finger down the shape of Frey’s cock until he could run it over the sensitive tip. “Lassie.”

Frey’s eyes shot up to him again, and their gazes held for a long moment. And it wasn’t Frey’s character looking at him then, wasn’t anything false or layered or even the slightest bit refined. It was Frey, only Frey with his wide and wild and utterly tempted eyes.

“Perhaps,” Frey said eventually, and his voice was strangled but remarkably certain considering that he had another man’s hand on his cock for possibly the first time in his life. “And perhaps we should debate this point further. In a more private setting, away from prying eyes.”

Hey, if groping each other in sight of several of the most powerful men in Edinburgh wasn’t enough to establish a character then he didn’t know what the hell would be. He gave a smile of his own, well aware that it probably emerged somewhat wolfish, and withdrew his hand from Frey’s cock only reluctantly. “My house is only about half an hour away tops, quicker if we jog.”

“Sounds perfect,” Frey said, so far gone that he didn’t even roll his eyes like a prissy madam at the thought of physical exertion, and rose to his feet so quickly that he staggered at the obvious head rush.

Their exit from the club was hardly dignified, but then dignity hadn’t really been highly prized in any of this. He snagged a bottle of oil from one of the tables on the way out, and made deliberately sure that Frey saw it. Frey responded by adjusting himself rather obviously in his trousers, holding his gaze all the while. They both actively jogged out of the room, not even having to pretend that they were two people heading out to fuck.

Reality hit him around the front parlour, as they both collected their coats, and guilt followed soon on its heels as they went outside. He had crossed several lines, had done so deliberately and carelessly, and suddenly that knowledge hung heavily over him. It wasn’t as though he particularly liked Frey most of the time, but he was still well aware that the man deserved better than to be groped in a club when he couldn’t fight back.

They walked briskly, though maybe slightly less quickly than they’d exited the club in the first place, down the street until they were out of the sightline of even the guards. Frey didn’t look at him all the way, but he couldn’t seem to stop looking at Frey. He suddenly wanted to say a thousand things, none of them cruel at all for once, but his tongue was tangled in his mouth at even the thought.

Frey deserved better than that, though. Frey always deserved better than he was given, and the only reason he rarely admitted that was because he was often too much of a dick to care.

He took in a deep breath, when they were about a street away, and then another deep breath when they were two streets over. By the time they reached the third street, marked by a deep alleyway that looked far cleaner than any one he’d ever seen in the parts of town that he usually frequented, he was finally ready to say words. “Frey? I’d just like to say, after everything that happened in the club, that I’m sorry that-”

“Nine-Nails,” Frey interrupted softly, but firmly. The extra plum was right back in his voice, and his eyes were narrowed in his most aristocratic manner as he took him in like he was little more than dirt on his shoe.

Well, he supposed he deserved that. He braced himself, ready to take the very worst that Frey could offer. “Aye?”

“Shut up,” Frey said, still soft but ever so deadly, and threw himself into his arms.

He was shocked, even after all of their deliberate flirting in the club he had never expected Frey to actually kiss him, and Frey took advantage of that shock. The other man pressed him right back into the alleyway, his distraction allowing him to be moved easily for perhaps the first time in his life, and kept kissing him all the way. Lips against lips, body against body, Frey’s hands sliding into his hair and tangling tightly there as if he’d been longing to touch long before that half hour long intimate conversation… It was passionate and unexpected and utterly, gloriously mad.

He still hesitated for a second, as thought came back to him through the cloud of shock, over what to do next. Maybe Frey wasn’t in his right mind at the moment, maybe this was some elaborate kind of revenge plan, maybe he’d kiss back only to receive a fist in the face. Any of those options seemed far too likely, and the sensible option would obviously be to withdraw and politely leave this to hang until another place and time… 

But he had never been all that sensible, truth be told. And, as Frey’s surprisingly talented tongue stole along the seam of his mouth and took advantage of his surprised gasp to steal inside, he couldn’t entirely see why that would be a bad thing.

He kissed Frey back, wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulders and dragged him even more firmly against him in one dizzying moment. Frey gasped against his mouth at the sudden participation, a sound that sounded more gleeful than shocked, and he immediately decided that this level of contact wasn’t enough. He spun Frey around, slammed him back against the alleyway wall and bit at his lips until he was moaning. He was mildly amused, through all the sudden and overwhelming lust, to notice that Frey had stubbornly kept a hand in his hair throughout.

They made out savagely against the wall for a long few moments, learning each other with an eagerness that he never would’ve dreamed of even a few hours ago. He kept biting at Frey’s lips, Frey responded by throwing a leg over his hip and grinding up against him shamelessly. Frey kept tugging brutally at his hair, and he retorted by deliberately rubbing their cocks together through their trousers until the man let out a noise that best resembled a squeak. It was all consuming, to a degree that would’ve been faintly frightening if he hadn’t been so carried away.

This was still all so sudden, all so unexpected. He had to wonder if Frey had somehow managed to bump his head somewhere along the way, or if he’d contracted some kind of sudden fever that’d sent him utterly out of his mind. He managed to draw back, just a little, and gasp out in between kisses: “Are you sure?”

“Didn’t I say shut up?” Frey demanded breathlessly, which was hardly reassuring. But then, in a way that was definitely reassuring, reluctantly removed one hand from where it was clutching in his hair and ran it awkwardly down his arm - which was now grasping rather desperately at Frey’s hip - until he could wrap it around the bottle of purloined oil he was still clutching. “Come on, Nine Nails. Prove you can shake me.”

He was so spiky and cross and unpleasant to be around, and in that moment he was the most handsome man that he’d ever seen. He smirked at him for a moment, just long enough that irritation flashed clearly in Frey’s pretty eyes, and then leaned in for another kiss. This one even deeper than before, and more passionate, and softer in a way he hoped Frey would turn over and over in his mind for years to come.

And then, without any more questions because apparently they were past that sort of thing, he took Frey by the shoulders and spun him around until he was facing the wall. He appreciated the view, his prissy English lass pressed up against a filthy alleyway wall and absolutely begging for a good fucking, and then reached to undo and yank down his trousers and appreciated that view even more.

Frey made a sharp noise of protest, he genuinely wasn’t sure if at the whole wall thing or at the amount of time he was taking, and he moved on swiftly. He uncapped the bottle of oil, and poured it messily over his hand. And then, without a single word of warning, he reached down in between Frey’s legs and ran one slippery finger over his crack.

Frey started like he’d never been touched down there before, which was definitely a possibility now that he thought of it, but it didn’t seem in an entirely negative way. The man froze for a long moment, and then let out an extremely desperate noise and pushed his hips back wantonly. Absolutely begging for his cock, in a way that did things to him he would’ve never expected before this night.

He saw no reason to hang around, not when he was already getting such an eager reception. He caressed Frey’s crack for a moment more, and then carefully pressed his first finger inside. He made sure to go slowly, gently. He didn’t want to hurt Frey, for reasons that he wasn’t entirely comfortable examining. He wanted to make this good, as nice as an impromptu fuck up against an alley wall could possibly be.

Luckily Frey already seemed to be finding it pretty nice. More than pretty nice, if the way that he was moaning was any indication. The man pressed his hands firmly against the alley wall, to give himself a little more leverage, and pushed back on his single finger demandingly. If anything he seemed to desperately want it rougher, to be taken apart in a way that he never would’ve expected from a man usually so deliberately prissy and closed off.

He added a second finger without really thinking about it, finding himself incredibly eager to push this whole thing further. It went in with a little more effort, again proving that Frey hadn’t done this very often if at all before, but a bit of patience got them there. And when he was all the way in, Frey tight around his fingertips, he made sure to deliberately wriggle his hand until he could brush just briefly against Frey’s prostate. Y’know, as a treat.

Frey, to his surprised joy, definitely seemed to find it a treat. His hips downright slammed down on his hand, and he gave a breathy wail that he’d probably be hearing in his dreams for years to come. He looked up from the sight of his fingers buried in Frey’s arse, and what a lovely sight that was, to find the man looking back over his shoulder with an expression of desperate lust on his face. Their eyes met for a long moment, and he couldn’t help but draw in a sharp breath at just how utterly undone Frey looked.

He almost dropped the bottle of oil, he was so distracted, and stopped it from shattering on the ground and potentially ruining all their fun only narrowly. Instead, admittedly fairly dazed himself, he slicked up a third finger and pressed it carefully against Frey’s rim. Just a little more, just a little more and then he could start taking the man apart _properly_...

But Frey wasn’t in the mood for a thorough preparation, or for any delay at all. His eyes slid shut for a long moment, and then snapped open and met his with a ferocious glare. “I’m ready now, Nine Nails.”

Usually he would’ve been pissed off at being ordered around in that plummy as fuck voice, but usually Frey wasn’t sounding hoarse and fucking eagerly down onto his hand. He swallowed, had to clear his throat several times before his voice was in any way fit for speech. “Are you-”

Frey shoved back onto his hand with violent force, clenched around him so tightly that his fingers - still obligingly caressing inside - actually hurt for a moment. “For fuck’s sake, Nine-Nails!”

“There there, lass,” he said, unable to hold back a giddy grin, and grasped Frey’s shoulders to spin him around again. He was just in time to see the way that Frey’s hard cock bobbed at the word ‘lass’, the way his expression reluctantly glazed as if he wanted to be called that all the time. “There there.”

Frey blinked, and then gave him a disgruntled look that made him start to laugh. He didn’t have long to do so, in the next moment Frey was lunging for his mouth again and all and any words were swallowed up by eager lips and an even more eager tongue. They made out like that for several long and filthy seconds, or minutes, or possibly hours. There was only the two of them, Frey’s trousers down around his knees and his cock so hard that it was actually starting to lift his kilt.

Speaking of which… He drew back just a little, although apparently far enough to warrant a sharp noise of protest from Frey’s direction, and carefully poured what little remained of the oil over his hand again. The best thing about a kilt, in his current opinion, was the ability to easily flip it up. He did so, paying far too much attention to Frey’s involuntary noise of hunger as he did, and slicked up his cock. He had to be careful not to hold it too tightly, for fear of bringing an end to proceedings before they even began.

Frey was watching him with a slightly dazed look, having obviously just realized that all the rumours about what Scotsmen kept under their kilts were true, but recovered when he looked up and made a pointed face. He even went so far as to wriggle back a little himself, hop out of his shoes in an endearingly - and he had never once expected to apply such a word to Frey - graceless way and then tug down his trousers until his lower half was entirely bare.

The man should’ve looked ridiculous, instead he looked incredibly fuckable. The moment he was fully slicked up, he stepped back in and brought their mouths back together. Frey allowed himself to be pressed back against the wall. And then, even more excitingly, hitched first one long leg and then the other around his waist and allowed himself to be lifted up like he weighed nothing at all.

He groaned, more desperate than he’d been in years. Who knew, that apparently all that it took to get him going was a pretty English lass who seemed incapable of looking at him with anything other than scorn? Not him, but he was perfectly willing to discover this brand new fact about himself. He lined up with only some fumbling, and pressed slowly into Frey’s tight arse.

He went slowly at first, despite the rather pressing desire to throw Frey back against the wall and fuck him until he sobbed for mercy. He made sure to pay attention to every single one of Frey’s reactions, making sure that he was shuddering with pleasure instead of overwhelming pain. He didn’t even press all the way in until Frey yanked, somewhat impatiently, at his shoulders. And even then he seated himself gently, instead of with any kind of force.

Frey seemed a little overwhelmed at first, which was only natural all things considered. His eyes fluttered shut for a long few moments, and his hands clawed desperately at the skin of his back. For a moment pain fluttered over his expression, and he genuinely wondered if he’d have to withdraw and deal with the messy aftermath of this entire situation without even an orgasm to show for it… But no, Frey had always been significantly stronger than he seemed. There was a long moment of silence, and then his jaw firmed and his eyes opened with a certain determination in their depths.

“Lass,” he breathed, and only realized that he’d done so when Frey clawed at his back again. He withdrew slowly, until his cock was almost out of Frey’s body, and then thrust back in the moment that Frey started to protest. He went slowly at first, he’d have said almost adoringly if he was stupid enough to think that tender emotions factored into this, but with a certain amount of force. He was perfectly willing to take on the task of driving Frey entirely out of his mind with lust.

Frey seemed perfectly willing to be driven out of his mind with lust, so that was a nice new thing that they had in common. He gasped at the slow thrust in, and then gave up any attempt to protest and settled for looping his arms around his neck instead. He remained largely still for the first few thrusts, obviously getting used to it, and then slowly started to drive down onto him with an eagerness that could only be called flattering.

He slowly increased the pace, moving faster and faster until he was actively fucking into Frey. He still tried to keep as gentle as he could, still tried to make this something soft so maybe Frey would come back for more later, but he was becoming steadily more aware that he was fighting a losing battle. All of this, Frey’s body trembling underneath him, was just too sweet.

He would’ve felt worse about it, may have even tried to restrain himself in some shape or form, if it wasn’t amply clear that slow and gentle wasn’t at all what Frey wanted. The man had limited leverage, pinned against a wall with a cock up his arse as he was, but he tried to use it anyway. He kept grabbing at him, kept whining needily, kept fucking down onto his cock in the obvious hope that the sharp movements of his hips would drive him faster and faster. Frey, to his mild surprise, obviously didn’t want to be treated gently. Frey seemed to want to be taken apart entirely, until there was nothing left but the core of him.

A part of him thought that he should keep going slowly anyway, that Frey could hardly make any sensible decisions when he was being fucked for the very first time, but a far bigger part of him was extremely eager to give the man everything he wanted and more. “Lass,” he said roughly, as a test, and when Frey let out a breathy groan in response he cheerfully took that as his answer. He started to move even faster still, started to leave some of his gentleness behind in favour of trying to get ever deeper into Frey’s body.

Frey had never done this before, that was blatantly obvious even with his enthusiasm, but that didn’t stop him from being openly encouraging of his roughness. He tightened those long legs around his waist, until his thigh muscles were dragging him in on every thrust. He clawed at his back needily, so hard that he half wondered if he’d find his suit jacket ripped the next morning, and then slid his hands back up into his hair. He kept kissing him ever so sweetly, tongue in his mouth and nails scratching against his scalp in the most distracting way possible.

It was all… Nice. More than nice, absolutely wonderful. Far better than he ever would’ve expected an impromptu coupling with the most annoying person, the most out of reach person, he knew to go.

For a long moment their rhythm was absolutely perfect, the both of them moving in time in that way that they’d always naturally fallen into even when they’d actually hated each other. There was only the slide of body against body, lips against lips, flesh against flesh in the very sweetest way. He lost himself in between Frey’s thighs, able to only keep fucking him and murmuring, “Lass,” in between those deep and out of control kisses. And, judging by the way Frey jerked every single time he was called a lass, Frey rather lost himself too.

The rhythm couldn’t last forever, though, neither of them had anywhere near that much self control. Before long, possibly spurred on by being called a, “Lass,” in a grumbling growl, Frey started to lose control of himself. He kept up the tempo of thrusts for a long few moments, but then his hips started to tremble and his hand started to clench uncontrollably. He drew back just a little, just to see Frey’s face, and saw a wonderfully dazed expression waiting for him there.

“Oh, Lassie,” He said tenderly, finally willing to acknowledge that he was starting to fall apart too, and lifted one hand from where it’d been pressed hard against the wall to tease some of that dark hair away from where it’d been falling into Frey’s eyes. Without the product that he generally used on it, the extreme amounts of effort he put into making himself look perfect, it was the softest thing that he’d ever touched. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about it, I’ve got you. My Lassie, _mine_.”

Frey whimpered, obviously out of his mind with lust, and their eyes met. It should’ve just been a simple glance, shared between two people who were fucking, but it wasn’t. Their eyes met, their eyes held and nothing else in the universe mattered. It was just the two of them, somehow - even though they most certainly shouldn’t be - on exactly the same level as they had been since the first time they’d met.

All of that considered, it wasn’t exactly a surprise when Frey tumbled over the edge. The man’s eyes closed, he let out a high pitched noise and his entire body clenched up as pleasure overwhelmed him. The tightness of his body around his cock, the feeling of come splatteringly warmly over his rather rumpled shirt, was enough to send him following only a few seconds afterwards.

They panted together in the aftermath, foreheads pressed together as they both came down from the unexpected high. He’d had good sex before of course, most of it with people that he actually liked, but somehow he felt that this had been better than all the times before. A part of him wanted to clutch onto Frey forever, and the fact that he knew it was impossible didn’t make the desire any less passionate.

Ah, fuck it. It was a bad idea, but he might as well allow himself one more of those tonight. He tilted his head, leant in until he could brush another tender kiss just briefly against Frey’s lips. He withdrew a moment later, knowing that it was foolish, but at least he’d had one more taste of that sweet mouth.

Frey froze for a moment, as their lips brushed, and then glared at him as he slowly drew back. He was expecting some yelling, or maybe even a heartfelt slap, but instead was surprised when Frey’s long legs tightened around his waist again. In the next moment he was being yanked back in, his cock jolting further into Frey in a way that made them both hiss, and their lips were meeting again.

Well, he was hardly one to look a gift horse in the mouth. They made out lazily against the wall for a long few moments more, Frey’s hands back in his hair and his tongue back in Frey’s mouth. It was less urgent than before, less obviously likely to lead to sex even if his cock was still inside Frey’s body, but that didn’t make it any less nice. Frey, when he actually got up to speed with what was going on, was actually a fairly good kisser.

“So,” he said breathlessly, in the break between kisses. Their foreheads, he noted with a certain baffling sense of pleasure, were still firmly pressed together.

Frey stole another kiss, almost lazily, and only then opened his eyes to look at him again. “So?”

He should maybe push for a deep and serious conversation about what the hell this had meant. He should maybe hurry to reassure Frey that this didn’t have to mean anything if he didn’t want it to, that he wouldn’t use this against him in any way. He should maybe get back to the case at hand, and try to reimpose some much needed boundaries. He should be doing a thousand things, but to be perfectly fair he had never been very good with the word ‘should’. He grinned instead, and nuzzled in intimately against Frey’s face. “This whole undercover thing is starting off well, then.”

Frey stared at him for a long and frozen moment, and then made a noise of mock outrage and slapped at his arm. It would’ve been fearsome, truly, except for the way that his face twitched as if he was barely biting back a smile.

Maybe this case wasn’t half as bad as it’d seemed.


End file.
